


Ashes & Tea Leaves

by SnakeWrangler4



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gen, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26148325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnakeWrangler4/pseuds/SnakeWrangler4
Summary: Valerie has a journey around Kalos she wishes to take.
Relationships: Valerie/Viola (Pokemon)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Lemongrass

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about Valerie and her visits with the other Gym Leaders across Kalos. I wanted something to write for the sake of it, to tell a story about a frustratingly underutilized character, and to focus on stream-of-consciousness rather than obsessing over polish.
> 
> So here's a rough-around-the-edges story that updates when it updates. I was never good at schedules anyway.

I remember the ashes of Route 113. 

The way they fell, the way they blew across the earth. Their own hypnotic, irregular rhythm. A dance through the air, irreverent, a summertime snow that does not relent. They dance as if no one is watching - it almost makes me jealous, in a way. No regard for any who may be watching. 

Unrestrained.

I relay all this to Viola, who is happy to listen and smile along as we go through her photo album of our Hoenn vacation. I tell her the ashes were what stuck with me the most. At the time, no other region had such a testament to nature's obdurate prowess. Normally what we see is humans bending the land to their will; Fallarbor is a reversal. The residents there are hardy and cultivate what they can through the ever-present, indifferent ashes. The people are the ones bent to find new ways to make a living. It's remarkable.

Viola smiles and pours us each another cup of tea. I had selected her favorite blend to brew. A sachet of lemongrass with traces of mint, bright and effervescent in accordance with her smile. 

I find myself transfixed by her movements. You can tell she is a photographer in everything about her mannerisms: her pinpoint motions, precise yet delicate, no gesture without purpose. It is its own language, a lexicon for the love she professes for nature and her endeavors to capture it in pictures. 

Viola snaps me out of my trance by offering me my newly-filled teacup. I graciously accept and hold it close, hoping the piping steam will help obscure the blush that has come over me. A quiet giggle tells me that was wishful thinking.

The sun begins to set on Santalune. It is so easy to lose track of the hours these days. With a wistful sigh I bid my love adieu, for I have more ground to cover. If I were to make the trek to Cyllage in one day, I must reach Lumiose by evening tonight. The hardest part will be the solitude.

I mourn the end of our day together, though I know it is far from our last. I double-check, triple-check my tea set, assuring myself I had indeed procured the favored blends of each leader of Kalos. Viola calmly grasps my hand, a gentle cessation of its manic movements to confirm everything was in its place.

It's nice.

We wrap up our pleasantries as I prepare to depart. Viola gives me two gifts for the road.

The first is a photograph, a picture of us standing in the ashes of Route 113. She tells me to keep it for if I feel lonely, or if I need a reminder for why I journey.

The second is a kiss. She tells me it's a promise, a favor for me to return when I complete my trek. I find myself short of words, but her smile tells me that is of little concern.

We part, but only for now. The glittering lights of Lumiose stand out in the darkening sky, offering a point of fixation as I follow their lead with wandering thoughts. I think of the lovely gifts that Viola bestowed upon me, holding both the photograph and my cheek. Feeling my face flush once more, I mull over which gift I favored more.

I have all the time in the world to think - though I doubt I will ever come upon the answer.


	2. Earl Grey

Lumiose is a different city every time I visit. It is as alive as its inhabitants, growing and ever changing with the locale. The sprawling streets love to hide away all sorts of curiosities, indicative of the various passions of individuals. No two storefronts are the same, from the extravagant finery shops to the humble craft and hobby stores. They come and go as easily as one breathes, an ambivalent rotation according to the whims of the city. Success and closure hold merely a hair’s breadth between them. Even now, little has changed about the Lumiose cycle.

Grant nods along as I relay my musings. He remarks how grateful he is for the simple life in Cyllage. A small, idyllic town, a place of respite between rough-hewn mountains and towering landmarks. His personal spot of paradise, he tells me. He sets the pace of his life. Were he in Lumiose, he fears he would be left behind. Here, everyone works together, builds each other up. Now more than ever he's grateful for his home.

I nod in turn. The conversation lulls, and we share a moment of quiet reflection, listening only to the rhythmic waves arriving upon the shore. I like to think Grant and I have more in common than one might think. His enthusiastic love of the region fuels his cliffside treks. I suspect we are gym leaders for much the same reason - a passion and care for our region, borne of our lives in sequestered hamlet's, and working to express that love in what we do. We aim to share the beauty of our homes, Cyllage and Laverre alike. 

More tea is poured. Grant sighs, sipping gratefully. Earl Grey, a bold, no-nonsense tea, fitting for the hardy mountaineer. He tells me he laments the inevitable lack of tourists this year. They are by no means the steadfast, tightly-knit community of Cyllage, a people nestled between stones who work to maintain each other. Far from it, he says, he feels that the tourists rarely come to appreciate all that Cyllage has to offer. But that's OK, because he enjoys visitors all the same. Whatever their reasons for coming, they have something to share, however fleeting. It's nice.

He sighs again. Something clearly weighs on his mind. I know not the words to lighten this weight, so silence fills the air instead. A fleeting melancholy, a nostalgic lamentation of days gone by. Time is not my strong suit, though I doubt anyone here could measure the minutes lost in this peculiar stillness.

Then, a surprise comes. It comes not from some other person or outside occurrence; it comes, rather, from me, before I fully realize what I am saying.

I tell Grant that I could dance. A performance to liven the town in lieu of tourism, a celebration of the solidarity forged through hardship. He, too, is surprised, but it quickly gives way to graciousness. He accepts the offer before I have time to recant. It seems I will be staying in Cyllage longer than I had anticipated. Preparations are soon made, and before long, I have swathes of eyes fixed upon me expectantly as I stand upon a stage.

I sigh. The eyes always unnerve me. It is by no means a personal judgment, but the scrutiny of strangers always paralyzes me so. It is not their fault; they only watch what I have practiced for years, so I cannot blame them for the creeping tendrils of what I feel. Every whispered remark amplified, every raised eyebrow broadcasted. In response to all their eyes, I shut my own, leaving my steps to be guided by the well-weathered rhythms of countless evenings of practice.

And so I dance. I dance for the crowd, that they might find joy in another night they spend in changing times. I dance for Cyllage, to fill some of the void resulting from the absence of strangers with stories all their own. 

I dance for myself, the worries of the show fast fading into the flowing steps, my own breathing the focal point of my senses. I dance for the ashes of Route 113, their own routine on display for all to see, never hindered by any who may be watching. I dance to my own music, and they dance to theirs.

I dance for Laverre, my home.

I dance for Kalos.

Our home.

No matter what comes.

I open my eyes to find myself standing once more where I had started. The music stops, soon replaced by the cheering uproar of the crowd. 

Yet of all things, there is but one regret on my mind.

I only wish that Viola had been here to see it.

I promise myself that I will perform for her when I return. Something for the both of us, on our terms.

I will have time to begin planning tomorrow, though I lament the relative lack of time - the hike to Shalour is a far cry from the distance between Santalune and Cyllage, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn't mean for this to be a month later! oh well


End file.
